Short and Not so Sweet

I'm not much in the mood to write... but I will anyway.
Done.
Thanks, I'll be writing again soon.

I think I have the ability to make people laugh.
God, please ensure that I never lose that. It will be the one thing that I can respond when asked
"What makes you different from the next thousand women?"
Note: I did not say "Better" or anything along those lines.
I have done right by myself tonight. I wrote Kristin an email and when I received a response, I responded to it, joked and did right by myself.
Would I like to write for a living?
Would you like to have stories published, win prizes?
I'm not sure. I know that there are a lot of people out there that stretch their arms creatively, just because they can and without hesistation or particular motivation... I want to be one of those people. I can tell because when I see artwork, photography, stories by those people I recognize it as something close to the bone.
So there you have it. Whether I have talent to win prizes or just the untapped knowledge to conquer PMS, who knows. I am sure we will find out in time...

I am feeling better today...
Sometimes I realize how weird my decisions must seem- to isolate one's self from all friends and decline opportunities to make new ones for over a year, in the prime of youth.
Yes, I realize that is odd. Just as I realize how difficult it will be to explain these actions to people in the future. You don't have any friends? None?
Correct.
Sometimes when I think about it I get scared, very alone. But then I wake up and listen to Steve Miller Band and look at myself in the mirror and figure out that it isn't as bad as it seems.
I do well alone. I think well alone. I don't process well, treat other people well, and I know that.
I realize that when I come out of this and decide to make new friends or whatever... that I will have to do so in AA. That is the only place where my actions would be understood.
I haven't talked to Kristin in a while and I know that it might be over. That friendship might have been too estranged for too long. My pushing away might have sucked up anything that was left from years upon years apart. Do I feel about that? In a very distant sense. It would be my fault- I refused to call, didn't want to see her. Why? I don't know. She was the one I held high up for years and it was something that had to eventually fall. What happened? I'm not really sure. I'm not really sure.

I hate me. I feel like shit. I'm irritated enough to not be able to write anything. And I think my father is a piece of shit as well.

Half of Something

The things we hate about ourselves aren't more real than things we like about ourselves. --Ellen Goodman
----------
Things cannot go on like this.
Not for the 50+ years I have left in my life
Not all that time in a half-alive state, alone, without enjoyment because I am unable to find enjoyment in the things that I used to.
With that little girl in me trapped
Vacant from conversations
Half alive, half dead
Or at least unconscious.
This is what it has come to.
This is what it means to be grown up.
This is my forever, my purgatory
To live long and healthy without beauty or happiness.
To repeatedly put my ear to the pillow because I cannot get comfortable
To fall asleep wishing I would grow a little taller, realizing that my time to do so has passed.
This is how I was meant to be.
This is the life I have chosen to live.
To look at my shallow complexion and hallow eyes with dark circles around them
To every day become more uncomfortable, restless with the face and body I see in the mirror.
To every day realize it will be more difficult to change than it was yesterday.
To do that for over fifty years...
No, I cannot do that.
This is not how I will choose to live my life.
This is not how it was meant to be.
To fidget with the most unimportant, miniscule issues in my life
To waste so much time, if not one way then another
To experience everything, everyday, every moment of every year with a body, with a mind, with a reality that is only half its potential... if that.
Not forever.
Not my life.
If this were all it was going to be...
Consider me already dead.
But that is not how it will be.
To look at the freeway and think
'How is it possible I am still alive?'
Though I drive well, I drive with only half a mind.
To forget why I put the orange juice with the bread and the bread in the refrigerator
To walk around my house doing some brand of stupid crap and think
'What am I doing?'
Half- everyday, all the time.
Maybe only for the past week or two or few.
Nonetheless... is this really how I will die?
Am I already dead?
It seems that way sometimes.
This is it. You pushed for so long, pulled for so long, fucked up so much, apologized so much...
This is it.
Do something with it.
Wake up.
Go forward.
Don't just sit still.
Climb. Reach. Smile. Laugh.
Be present. Listen.
This is you, the only you, the older every day you...
Climb.
Overcome this numb feeling.
You want happiness? Adventure? Change?
Then go.
Because if it hasn't come to you yet
It probably isn't going to.
You can not live, wait, and die
Half of something… great?
Yes
It could be sweet.

Kite Tied to a Rock.

How shall I describe my current state?
It isn't right to say I am drifting...
I am drifting much as a kite would that is knotted around a heavy rock.
Drifting, yes, at a constant length.
Quickly learning that being an adult simply means you have more settings on auto pilot.
That I am not all here, as I sit around all day because I am fortunate enough to be able to do so.
So I linger away at a safe distance becoming obsessive compulsive about the length of arrows in my powerpoint presentation. Because I can, that is the only reason.
Smoke tastes bitter and as unpleasant as the taste in my mouth when I have awaken these past few days.
There you have it; a list of my ills in their miniscule existence, probably short lived as I will rise one morning and shake this phase off without a second glance.
Except in the future, as I always do, when I come back to
"This day in time one year ago"
And see how fucked up I am.
---
So be it.
I feel the need to say or write these things simply to keep them from swimming around in my head indefinitely.
Maybe it is a good idea for me to go back to Arkansas after all. Maybe it will be a big enough change from my current to merit an awakening.
If nothing else it might restore my appreciation of what I have here in California.
There are many things that I have not really... paused on.
Perhaps for fear that a resolution would occur.
The importance of Davis going to jail and the curious circumstances by which I found out.
The two very odd run-ins with youth that I have had in the past couple weeks; the one at the gas station and another on the road home from LR one evening.
The significance of talking to the substitute teacher who lived in England for a year and met the queen.
The significance of my taking important, or at least decisive, roles when speaking to people and in my actions... in public.
The fact that a few math problems have detoured me so profusely.
I have, for one reason or another, not pondered to heavily (if at all) these issues and will need to when I get pieced back in the right formation.

PS: my step-sister is in the hospital in Arizona with kidney problems which were set off by a cold. Please, do not interpret my mentioning this last as a sign of disrespect.

I guess I really don't have much to say tonight. Sorry, I'm pretty dry these past few days. Really, really, really have to get my motivation back. It has been gradually sucked from me in minor forms and now I am pretty worn, no pun intended.
Maybe I am losing my mind.
Who knows...
March 16, 2005
2241771

Belize- short

It is a little less than a month till I go back to Arkansas. Yes, that is right: the countdown has started already, though in a very insignificant sense.
I know I am gearing up for/exercising out of a battle, rehearsing my retorts in my head. Maybe I am just getting it worked out before I go back.
That's all really. I am desperately battling to control my irritation, there are bugs in every room, and I am bored as fuck.
By the way, I have a canal infection in my ear which is actually not important to anyone at all and therefore a waste of time for me to write.
Amazing, I was in such a good mood before I started writing this.
My dad and LD are heading down to Houston today. Tomorrow they will leave on a week-long cruise to Belize. The man who would never take time off work to spend with me, come to California to visit me... well it doesn't matter in the least. This is how it is, how it always will be.

This is only a short post because it is late.
Well... what can I say.
I have made it my personal, sub-conscious mission (despite my best conscious intelligent destesting) to feel about Davis being in jail.
See: Bulimic trying to puke
But my head hurts WHAAAAA and I am hungry WHAAAAA and I am going to bed now
WHAAAAA
To self: stop dredging up shit that is past; there is no good to come of it damn it.

Davis: Summary

It is important, in some manner, for me to reflect momentarily on the monstrousity that was my relationship with Davis.
How did we meet? I was preparing to steal some cough medicine from a local drug store. He was outside with some acquaintances of mine from school. I took an instant liking to him, possibly for the sole purpose of attainment, and it was reflected. We ventured into the drug store and he took my hand.
After that, all hell broke loose. It was, if I remember correctly, a short relationship. He came in between the two pillars of TBJ's existence in my life and filled that area exactly as stated. I was possessive, he was "in love"
I was destructive, he was devoted.
He lingered away, I renewed my interest
Lather, rinse, repeat.
There were countless drugs, countless parental meandering to save us, shoplifting charges that banned us apart, more drugs to bind us together, parents so desperating trying to pull us away from each other, and the feeble grasp that we held- a fucked up teenage relationship, doomed from the beginning; one female drug addict leading one male drug addict down a rabbithole and the hell that surrounded that journey.
The shoplifting charge that we had together, Lord help us and Davis forgive me, landed me the option of immediate probation or rehab. I chose the latter and he came as well.
We planned it. I planned it. He had to go, I chose to go because it was a good way to get out of legal obligations temporarily, we conspired to go to the same place without the consent of parents. Bam, there we were. That was the end of us.
Who wanted to get sober? Who relapsed first? Amanda- that was my final possessive pout before things crash landed in a complete burning mess. I relapsed, he did too, we stayed away from each other to some extent.
Then, he ended up in Mexico in another long-term rehab. That final tug threw us completely apart- the distance had cleared his mind, leading him to realize what a truly evil bitch a had been. The distance put enough time between us for me to solidify my sobriety and find solace in my own presence and that of God's. There it was. We have seen each other once since then, by accident. I happened to be testing in a room that he wandered into on his first day back at school. Two, three seconds maybe. He recognized me and made a small note of it on his webpage. That was it.
I stopped reading his blog, combing the entries for my name. He stopped trying in reinstigate a relationship with the evil bitch. That is how it is.
I stayed sober and he didn't, though I do not know any specifics at all. Only what the sheriff's page told me when I, again, accidentally ran across his name in the arrest log. But he struggled, I struggled, we struggled together and alone.
I do take some, not all or most, of the blame for the descent into drugs that we took head-on, together. A car accident, doomed from the beginning and all the way through till the end.
I was not ready, mature, kind, anything. I was trouble, complete and utter trouble. He was... himself- lost puppy-style, trouble in a troubled way, and we love-love-loved each other in such a superficial stoner way that was still able to burn him into my memory.
His jacket remains in my ex-boyfriend box along with pictures and letters; one of which he wrote to me in rehab and had to smuggle it to me, telling me that he loves me and never wanted to hurt me. Because I always made it other people's faults, though it was almost always my own.
Nonetheless, I am here. And I dream about him, true- nightmares. Nightmares that are strange and show me in a light that is as black as I am now white, the complete opposite of who I am and what we are, were, whatever.
This is my life, my past that is so shredded with erase marks, where I attempted to expell these things, lie them out of my life, deny them, forget them. This is who I was, what I did, to myself and to other people. This is nothing but a kind, muted summary of the truth.
Because I cannot write about his dog and parents, his brother and the beach.
Because I cannot write laying on Duece's bed in rehab and talking about him.
Because I cannot justify, forget, or remember these things that happened, that I did without descending again into all of it.
Because I have erased those numbers from my cellphone, forgotten the webpage, the details, the messy ordeal... and my insturmental part in it all.
Because I know that my wrongs are on his criminal records, my pictures on his hard-drive... and I hope that it can all be erased.
Because I know that if I forget... I will descend again into all of it.
Because this is who I was.
Because this is who I was.
Because this is who I WAS.
And it haunts my dreams but not my waking life and that is how it will remain.
That is how it will remain.
---
You deserve my apologies for the wrongs I have done to you. If I had said them before, when you wanted to hear them, they would not have been real. So, you have my apologies and your face will remain in my dreams as a reminder... of then.

Poem-ish

I have an assignment to write a poem. Last time I wrote something on this blog for an assignment I did very well, so let's try to recreate the magic.
I tried writing it by hand, thinking that would help but I began to over-analyze it and realized that wouldn't work. So I need to just do it by my mind and not my brain. How shall I do this, yikes. Keys, fingers, mind, take me where you will...
Where are you, Sam?
When you are alone
In a dim lit room
A broomstick as your microphone
........
This is totally overthought. I am trying too hard and it shows.
.......
STRIKE ALL PRECONCEPTIONS ABOUT THIS POEM: ERASE ERASE ERASE
------------
He stands alone
Well, not quite
The broom keeps him company
They seem to be a perfect match.
If you peer into a dim lit room
After the storm of a party has rolled on
You will find him there,
Them there,
He and the broom.
It is good company, you see
Because they understand each other, you see
He needn't speak too loudly
Merely whisper into the wooden stick
Pieces of wisdom, of which he has many
Stuck in his pocket
For safekeeping, you see
He may need them, you see
His face is aged but the broom doesn't mind
Each line holds a story
They dance always but
only rarely do they dance
You must peer often to catch them
The scuff, tap tap, slide tap tap
That is the way he steps, you see
When he feels alive and young, you see
But less and less
As time goes by
Does he scuff his feet
His eyes still shine
And to his lovely wooden bride
There are plays to be acted
Speeches to be spoken
Cords in the heart to be plucked
And he will faithfully do these
Without ever speaking a word
Just whispers into the wood
Its a shame, you see
Because you will never hear him, you see.

My ex boyfriend is in jail.
Felony Possession of a Controlled Substance.
$20,000 bail.
With that money I could go buy a lot in Arkansas and sit sober, contemplative, successful
Happy, damn it. Yes, I am happy.
I am happy that I am not in jail. I am happy that I am here working on literature stuff, pondering a poem, living my BORING life because it is mine.
And I love it, I do. I forget and I pout but I love it... we went to rehab together, his first, my only. I convinced him to go. I didn't want to go alone.
I dream about him often, the most out of all ex-boyfriends... even the one I "loved"
I did him wrong as I did everyone wrong then. Did I dream about him last night or the night before?
I remember answering the phone out of sleep and wanting to say "call back, I am saving a man"
No, probably not.
I saw him last year, when he got back from another rehab in Mexico. I was already sober... one moment... just a little over a year ago; last February. I had around three months sober.
On the 19th I have 16 months, over a year, over a river, over an ocean away from them.
But I still dream of them occasionally.
And I have paused to think... it should've been me. I cry but its only half-ass. I quit and they didn't and that's what separates us. That is all. That is the only reason I wasn't arrested for felony possession. That one critical difference which spread out in my life like blood in veins, making it seem like we are worlds away. But really its the same, just that I don't do what they do anymore and all the success and behaviors and whatnot that come with it are...
There are bugs everywhere. In every room of the house, at least one attaches itself to the walls and I am too kind or too lonely to kill them.
And outside there are spiders that crawl on me.
Do you think that means something? That suddenly over the past few days bugs have integrated themselves into this house, that yard, my house, my yard?
What slipped? There was such a feeling of awe and then nothing.
I talked to my father, my dad, daddy, Gary, whatever. I told him the story and I felt imensely sad quite suddenly, upon completion like the process of sharing it or maybe the reaction that followed drained me completely. Frail and crying like the child I am, for no reason at all over something that I could so easily change. WHY DON'T YOU CHANGE?
Why don't you get off my ass? The more you get on my ass about this, the more difficult it is to change. Sitting here, by myself all day I go through a scope of feelings but I work through it because that is what I do. And if someone says "YOU THERE, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? CHANGE! QUICKLY YOU SICK CHILD!" it tends to have an adverse affect on me. So please feel free to go fuck yourself because I am doing this on my own time.

Can I Stand Here and Talk to You

Shall we discuss what happened a little while ago? Yes, I think we shall.
I was getting gas at the same gas station I always go to...
I had just pulled the credit card out and pressed the first two numbers of my zip code when the guy came up to me, probably about 16 maybe 17, hell maybe 15 I don't know.
"Hey, me and my friends just ran out of gas- do you have any money like a dollar or any change or anything..."
I was sort of stunned and didn't really think before I answered
"No, this is all I have," I said lifting up the credit card into his line of vision, "sorry."
"Oh that's ok. Hey there is this cop around here, can I stand here and talk to you?"
Did I say yes or nod my head, I don't know. I guess I said yes without thinking.
"Just pretend you know me," he said as the cop car pulled around to the other side of the gas pump.
"No, you have to go, I can't get in trouble." My response.
"Oh ok, thanks," he said and walked off towards the police car, from which at least one officer emerged; I think I heard him say "Were you asking her for money?"
I got in my truck and put up CDs for the remainder of my stay and only looked over there once. When the pump stopped I made the audible remark "Oh Lord! In my next life I will drive an escort." Then I drove off. Once I was out of the parking lot I saw a second police car heading to the gas station. I thought maybe they would come after me, thinking I knew the guy: I didn't care and I wasn't afraid- I have nothing to be afraid of. So I was fully prepared for the rest of my drive to pull over if I saw any blue lights.
If that is some sort of message from God, that this kid would pop up there at that moment and come up to me, I will have to decifer the meaning later.
Other than that the drive was a bust; its like my life is a video game or something at least that's how it feels at the moment.
Maybe I am going crazy again, I don't think so. I think I am just bored... of myself, and everyone knew it would happen. They thought it would happen a lot earlier.

Let's do this right now:
Why do you do the things you do? Because I am alive- because I am still fucking alive.
Why do you stay here, stay away from the world? Because I am scared- I don't know if I can trust myself to be out there...
Why don't you let the past die? Because I fear I would forget it, though it has grown farther away as time passes.
What will you do with yourself? That is to be determined, if you don't mind. Hopefully I will stop burning bridges in the verbal and literal sense (arson is not on my criminal record and I would like to keep it that way). After that... well, time passes just as it should and so far it seems to have done me good- I seem to have grown up from a year ago and a year from now...
Who knows?
What in your past makes bad attention better than no attention? Makes faking sick, making people worry seem like such a good idea? What the fuck is wrong with you?
--------
We can see that things have taken a turn for the worse on the last question there.

Your Worlds Will Collide.

I am in one of those moods where I want to beat the shit out of myself with something heavy.
I am sad and indecisive and you can hear it in my voice and when I think about it I feel like crying. but the crying would be followed by me biting the pillow or pulling my hair or something
I can tell, its one of those moods. But so far in this post "I" is still capitalized and that is a good sign.
I am irritated and the irritation makes me feel trapped
And OH who could possibly give a shit? I don't even particularly give a shit.
Damn it. Tears well up followed by anger that burns them away before they fall.
What will I do? Take a drive, get lost in the music or some half-ass version of that,
Pretend that I have relavance and that I'm not just driving around like a little girl playing with the big kids. And thinking to myself "how in the fuck have you stayed alive this long?"
Good damn question. I don't know and I don't know where my brain is and what the fuck is wrong with it.
What the fuck is wrong with you, damn it?
Tomorrow you'll go back to the storage unit to see if you really did all that crap and whether it really matters at all
And how much of your life is fucked away on post-it notes that will become trash in a day, week, month, year, etc.
Why do you do it? Why in the world do you do it?
Because you always do; you always put too much or too little of yourself into the most fucked up hobby, situation, person you can find.
How in the hell do you spend over 2 hours in a storage unit, pouring sweat, pushing and pulling boxes- writing little post-it notes of their content? How the fuck do you do that and then walk away and go
"Shit. What the fuck? Why did I do that?"
Yes, you say that- you say it every time. Every. Damn. Time.
Why did I do all those drugs?
Why did I steal?
Why did I lie profusely to every person I have ever known?
Why did I play all those games?
Why did I waste all my time, their time, God's time, time time mother fucking time?
And why the hell am I so patient writing this? Why are the words now so empty when emotion was full and debilitating when you started this?
And what the fuck have you started now?
Nothing. That's it: I haven't started anything and that is not news- I haven't started anything in almost 16 months and I will continue to live like this.
It suits me: because I cannot control myself. Because I am so fucked up. Because because because time time time.
Because I can go on rants that seem perfectly justified and slam my head into my fist five minutes later. "I will never do that again"
The motto of an alcoholic, a drug addict, a weird girl, a blind girl, a girl wasting her time
He too easy with words shortly falters and falls
For what? Why do you go on thinking that you can say whatever you want, do whatever you want and this time
Oh, this time,
It isn't going to bite you in the ass.
Why do you keep yourself blind of your intentions? Your emotions? Because they aren't noble, that's why.
What makes you think that the words that come out of your mouth should be spoken?
When you say them and the very second they are expelled you forget them
And almost never take ownership of them
What is wrong with you? Why are you too tired to drive
TO DRIVE
And what was it you thought to yourself that moment
"If I cannot drive and if I cannot write, I can't do anything"
Bullshit. Those two talents were never yours to own.
It is a eccentric world you live in- and different; in your truck, in your house, in your mirror
They are totally different people.
Why don't you pick one?
Because none of them are real? None of them are good? None of them are worthwhile?
Or because they are all much more entertaining than who you really are?
What the fuck is wrong with you?
You have to change.
You cannot regret every word you say. You can't take back every moment you waste. You cannot live like this forever- alone forever and you cannot be trusted with other people.
You can't trust yourself... you regret the majority of your life!
Oh, right: experiences make you wiser, more creative.
What-the-fuck-ever. You are a child, a baby, living in so many different worlds that are all so very fucked up that it is mind boggling.
How the hell did I live this long? How the hell did I make it to this age?
God knows I shouldn't have.
"I don't believe I will die in a car accident, I really don't."
Where are you going?
-------
Does this all sound cruel? Ooohhhhh! Don't say such mean things about yourself, about my daughter, my grand daughter. This is the truth. I am sick of me.
No... I am sick of not being sick of me: sick of being "okay" with who I am
with being moody, lazy, tired, annoyed, annoyed, annoyed, irritated, sad, iritated, angry, loud, obnoxious... etc, etc, etc.
Because the sickest part is that it is in the fibers of my being- that it has festered within me for this long.
Because the sickest part is that I am producing these thoughts on to paper...
And that later I will read them and say
"Shit. What the fuck? Why did I do that?"

Weird World, short.

I wake and walk in a weird world
With faces familar and foreign
And voices commanding, kindly of course
Stand. Up. Straight.
When You. Ta. Ta. Talk.
--
And maybe that's all there is to it.
Writing flowered with commas.

Creative: Answer me this first.

Produce, damn it! Before you go getting your imagination running high dreaming of writing.
See if you can do it on command- now, write something, something good, something award-worthy, now!
Yea, that's not going to work.
The sprinkler story went over well; she (Connley) suggests I enter in some creative writing contests. You and I know the truth: that most of what I write is mere introspective crap, rants over my family, and other bullshit purely produced for the purpose of draining my brain.
Oh! How romantic to think I contain some creative ability; an artist of words? No, more likely a worshiper of the thesaurus.

Main Entry: CreativePart of Speech: adjectiveDefinition: imaginativeSynonyms: artistic, clever, cool, demiurgic, deviceful, fertile, formative, gifted, hep, hip, ingenious, innovational, innovative, innovatory, inspired, inventive, original, originative, productive, prolific, stimulating, visionary, way out

Why yes that sounds nice, I'll be one of those! Let me just grab my checkbook...
Right. I can make it seem like its not such a far stretch...
that when my lips move with no words being produced, scenerios running through my brain, facial expressions conversing among themselves... that is all the effect of creative energy that seeps out
Or she's insane
Or eccentric
Or has some really bad attention deficit disorder
Or has the brain of a four-year-old child
Or an overactive imagination that must be hushed
HURRY! MY PERSCRIPTION PAD, PLEASE! THE CHILD IS DEEPLY FUCKED UP, WE CANNOT WAIT A MOMENT LONGER!
Or... is everyone like that? Does it run in my family? (the scenerio seepage, insanity, etc.)
Like my features, the placement of freckles and beauty marks, the lines on my hands, the width of my hips,
the shape of my odd feet; why I naturally curl my toes under and can even walk on them like that, why they look like hands, why the big toe is so large, why they aren't small and pretty like girl's feet should be...
"Your feet are weird- your bigtoe is huge."
"Do you know why? So when you see footprints in the sand you will know if they're mine. God can find me easier this way."
And while you are coming up with answers... tell me why I dream the things I dream? Why faces appear and situations occur that... were and never should have been, and why I wake up in cold sweats because of it
And why in my dreams I am always doing something to harm myself, humilate myself
And whether that is the way I live my life when I am awake.
Answer me that- Alleviate these questions that chase me and then, THEN I will create you something award-worthy; THEN you will be amazed.
-----
Though I know now that when those questions are answered I will have no will to write
Because when the mystery, the journey, is over... what will be left to push me?

Sprinkler Story for Literary Focus

Was there something I wanted to say? More likely I just want to say something.
I have to write about an incident in my life and use imagery- how vague can you possibly get?
The first thing that comes to mind is that walk under the peach sky with my dad when I was a little girl and like anything that comes to my mind it wishes to be expressed promptly. I cannot, however, do so because the proportions are so unbalanced; such a weighty memory that holds deep emotional significance in my life and a paragraph on a paper that probably no one will ever read, let alone feel it.
So, I have come to you, dear blog, for an inkling into my past, even a droplet, from which I can produce a minescule paragraph without dissatisfaction over it's lack of appreciation.
I toyed over the memory of bringing my bare foot down on the metal sprinkler, slicing the bottom open- that would be excellent for imagery. But the memory is incomplete, isn't it?
Let's see:
It was summer as summer always is in the south- air thick with moisture pressing with gentle urgency against the blatant heat, the perfect mixture to produce bushy grass and flowers who's charming beauty was only surpassed by the sweet scent expelled.
My brother and I were both young- he twelve and I eight. Our innocence was still intact, visible in the four shiny black marbles of eyes that shined radiantly for permission to play with the water hose. The day was good so that when the sun shone from morning to evening it made the four metal blades on our tiny spinning sprinkler gleam like a diamond in the lawn.
We ran through the mist of water only a few minutes, our legs covered with the cut grass that stuck to them.
I can't remember how fast the blades could spin but they ceased, nonetheless, when my stray foot landed atop them. I shrieked but did not move for fear that the blades would continue their mischievious circuit in the bottom layers of skin that molded my tiny foot.
My mother or father or brother swooped me up and deposited me on the kitchen cabinet where clear cold water from the sink faucet ran red into the drain with pity at the sight of my sole. And what of that sole? Of that day it appeared to be the victim of a hostile ice pick though now it shows no evidence. The innocence of that age must have flowed in my blood and barred all those childhood injuries from passing through the decade.
At the time I did not know of Archilles, though I figure now I can relate to his pain.

Tenba Fiesta

72% of Flying Experience is Good

Well hello there.
There isn't really anything to tell but I thought I would post anyway.
I have been taking some steps (half-ass but more than I was before) to control my mood- aka not act pissed off just to act pissed off.
Next in line, I should probably get control of my mouth.
Went down to mama and papa's today... uneventful...
--
Ah, I know: N and I are planning a mini-roadtrip to Colorado during my spring break
We are going to take Layla to go get some stuff that currently being stored in Scott's trailer- as in Scott and Cindy, not that it makes any difference because you still don't know who the fuck I am talking about.
So that will be a three day thing and probably pretty damn awesome... hold on- I am going to go check and see if I have a trailer hitch... fuck man, I don't know what I am really looking for- I am pretty sure I do... further research is required momentarily...
Yes, I do indeed have a trailer hitch. That truck... is so damn spoiled. I say that and yet I know it isn't totally true- she needs to be washed. But other than that she is so loved.
But yes, ideally N and I will go on our roadtrip and then my dad and I will do something for the rest of the time. That means that he might possibly come out here for the first time in years. Which would in turn mean that I won't have to go through the airport crap and that would be nice.
Though I really don't mind airports- about 79% of the time I don't mind the whole ordeal of flying. Let's see: (scale of 1-10: 10 being totally sucks ass and 1 being totally rocks)
a) DO MIND: waiting in line to go through security, etc. (10 points possible)
b) DON'T MIND: walking around in the airport checking places and people out. (10 points possible)
c) DO MIND: taking the tram to a separate terminal outside of the building because it sucks, and its hot, and it just sucks- trust me. HOWEVER- this is not a round-trip problem because it is only out of LAX and only if I go direct to Arkansas rather than Oklahoma. (10 points possible)
d) DON'T MIND: getting on the plane and watching other people file in (10 points possible)
e) DO MIND: other people sitting next to me- because most of the time it isn't good
f) DON'T MIND: any part of the flight- that is (30 points possible)
- Take off (10 points)
- Duration (10 points)
- Touch down (10 points)
g) DON'T (really) MIND: waiting to get off the plane- it isn't actually as big of a deal as people make it (10 points)
h) DON'T MIND: waiting for the baggage (10 points)
i) DO MIND: when the baggage doesn't show up- but that is so rare its not really a threat (10 points)
With 130 possible points: and 36 points of unpleasurable experiences (mainly adding in the hassle of running into people, the flight being too long, and other relatively minor things)
I am left with the rough answer of: 72.3076923076923076923076923077 of my airport experience being positive- which is very very good.
72% of the time I like flying
Who knew?

This is my current stereo (which has some major problems reading CDs and has become quite annoying)

This is my new stereo (or will be when it gets to my house and then installed)

I can't go to sleep yet.
I could, if I took the medicine, that is true, but some subliminal dissatisfaction keeps me up.
If I try to go to bed, the irritation would haunt me in my sleep.
Irritation that has bothered me all day, appearing unwelcomed in my conversations with N.
Deep dissatisfaction. And my moodiness, that I avoid analyzing most of the time, has come into my view once again.
How much of my life do I give to my mood swings? My poor family never knows what kind of mood I will be in.
The knowledge that it is my control, that I have complete control and mostly my actions are muted versions of what I might actually have the capacity to feel- that I exercise the muscles to ensure they are ready for use when the time comes.
How do you get me to come out from my own shadow? Laugh- make me make you laugh. It is mostly pointless to attempt to make me laugh- I can avoid that.
But the mood that makes me regain my sense of humor and joke around can comepletely stifle whatever had me down.
At least that is my theory.
And upon finishing that thought and looking back up at it, my irritation once again rises.
So far it has been unsuccessful in completely conquering me, though I have completely drifted through the day without a clue about what I have said.
I have yet to attack the keyboard, to hurry and erase everything I have typed because I think its worthless.
Oh yes, this is all too common for me. It is... disturbing? disguisting? to realize that I am like this most of the time, allowing myself to drift into unhappiness and wallow there for a while.
I cannot live my entire life being like that.
Just as I am beginning to believe I cannot study literature. There is something unsettling about it that I can't quite figure out.
Is it because I believe that scrutinizing, criticizing, and categorizing literature defeats a crucial part of its meaning?
Is it because my vocabulary and brain do not allow me to express what I see when I read?
Or because I am just not capable of understanding literature in the way that is necessary to make it a career...
All of the above?
I read and I see and I am told that I have a gift, though I don't know the depth of truth that contains, but I can't apply
theme, mood, climax, conflict, imagery, figurative language, alliteration, characterization, etc. etc. etc.
to what I find. It is there, yes I know and I feel it
But I can't always find a name for it, call it, and still understand it.
It is because I feel it, in deft truth, that it holds meaning to me
When I say "there that is spot. spot is a symbol for puppy." that the story becomes shallow.
I am a fan of literature and a student in my own right.
"the mood is bla. the author shows this by using imagery such as bla bla. that imagery is shown through figurative language such as bla bla..."
I go to school to learn (to some extent, just allow me my moment)
I read for pleasure, for personal pursuit
I talk to N. about literature because she understands it, though she was able to make a career out of it, and can feel with me.
But I am nuts and on quite a few medications, spending quite a bit of time at home, and quite good at using repetition to prove points.
That is my "style"
As is wearing primarily blue, black, and gray.
As is silver rather than gold.
As is sometimes using puncuation. and other times not
So on and so forth
I could continue and try to convince myself that I am an individual who is not totally crazy and at least functional though a recovering drug addict
Though I mainly call myself an alcoholic because of the small variety of drugs in my past
No cocaine, crack, heroine, ecstacy
If I were to walk in a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, I would look like a toddler pussy who needs to spend a few more years doing drugs before I qualify.
So I stick with alcoholic, because that really was my downfall.
---
In other less introspective but still self-concerning news, N and I went shopping for a few stereo for my truck. The current one has been being a bitch so its going to be replaced before I beat it with the palm of my hand.
Upon leaving our first stop I saw Mike- he apparently works there and was doing the exit standby incase someone tried to steal electronics or something, I don't know why they have those guys.
Anyway, Mike is one of the first people I met after moving to California. He lived in the first apartment complex we lived at and was (is) very nice. Unfortanutely, the entire basis of our relationship (as friends, by the way) was based on my charming little lies, so his continued existence means that I haven't totally blotted out the past. He was always a very nice guy and it is unfortunate that there is such a foundation of mistrust- though his knowledge of the depth of my lies was limited. But everything, except my name and the fact that I am from Arkansas, was a lie.
The most pathetic or at least weirdest part is that the person I am now is the closest I have ever been to the lies I told 4 years ago: the person I created then in my mind, for the most part and for the broad strokes- I am her now.
But that is irrelevant to the people that knew me then. In many ways I am probably still the same but that life seems to very far away. Thank God.
So there you go.
That brief second in which we saw each other and exchanged a confirming nod is over.
Sometimes when I drive and see a silver Eclipse, I check to see whether it is him.
Though I guarantee there is no emotion between us whatsoever, I would like him to know that I am different, that there is some truth in me; that I am not still living in my delluded world.
Well, I still live in my delluded world, but it is filled with an entirely different mixture now.
I think now I have worked off some of that weariness of sleep.
I will puruse the net for a new stereo and return to you soon.
Goodnight all,
K

TGJ and an Anime Flick: Unaltered.

What shall I say about this Monday evening?
The day was dull- I thrust myself successfully into finishing the work I had laid aside last Friday. By mid-afternoon I was wondering how in the hell I was going to spend the rest of the day, without energy to do anymore literary work and without braincells to watch the movie I had requested. N and D both expressed their lack of enthusiasm at watching the anime.
I toyed around with going down for an after dinner chat with my grandparents but had no will to drive there and back.
Then what?
When I received the text message, I felt a familiarity with the situation- such as I had dreamt it prior. There was a weak pull in my stomach momentarily, recalling the importance I had not to long ago placed on him.
But it subsided quickly.
And then?
I called because I couldn't formulate the response by text message and wanted the fluctuations of my unimpressed voice to be heard. The knowledge that he had a bad day was matched by the fact that he liked anime and would want to watch the movie with me
Because because because because that's how it is and was.
In the 45 minute span I gave myself before he was to show up, I ran around the house doing various things to ensure that I did not smell or look like I had been reading and smoking with my hair up all day, which I had been.
On conclusion that
a) I did not smell like smoke, nor anything repulsive or suggestive
b) My hair was suitable to be let down (because I rarely leave my hair up when in company of people other than my family- I find my face a weakness and my hair a strength; when matched, the brown eyes appear more confident)
I was left with 15 minutes, during which the curiosity of my actions began to sink in. Specifically, I began to realize who I had invited over and the ridiculousness of my preparation.
Did I really invite him over? Why did I invite him over? What was I thinking?
Recalling who this person is, the little we have in common, and the oddity that was my interest in having him around.
Nonetheless, he came and all went well...
I say all went well because I had no feeling at all; I enjoyed myself, stuck to my true character, said nothing regretful, and made no future promises of friendship or even communication.
If this seems not shocking, refer back to the last time we caught up with one another, and the ulcer I ignorantly gave myself- for reasons that I still cannot explain.
So there. He came, I was charming. He talked, I lent an ear. He left, I was unaffected.
Then what?
I drove. What else would you expect? I waited only a few minutes- to tell N. I would be taking a drive and gather my phone, etc.- before I went out the door.
In the front lawn I smiled to myself and ran to my truck to exalt my mood, fast and free
That is where I will end because I am getting tired and want a cigarette before I go to bed.
I hope the moon will be out- he will read my face and mind instantly without a word, and smile his glowing smile because he knew I could do it.